Writing is my blight, a light of gold to those who lived in darkness. It's a blessed curse, an ever dim sunlight, a white robed funeral. Writing is a curse I've had my whole life, but, others see it as a blessing. As it seems, both are true, sometimes it's the only way I can get my feelings out, others I can't even spell a word.
My writing is my light, hidden in darkness behind a mask of joy, but the inside of the mask has a pattern more beautiful than the outside. The inside holds the sorrow, and pain. It shows the true colors of a person. Now, I look inside, and yell. I will take this mask off, reverse it, my writing is not my blight. It's my most beautiful light.
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